


To Evil End, Shall All Things Turn

by MyresLight



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Fingon, Trans Male Character, minor description of violence, request of assisted suicide, yeah but have you ever wondered how you could make the nirnaeth arnoediad worse?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyresLight/pseuds/MyresLight
Summary: He shouldn’t tell him, but Fingon’s hope has always outweighed his sense.And, no matter how hard he tries, there are always consequences.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	To Evil End, Shall All Things Turn

**Author's Note:**

> i doubt maedhros and fingon’s hosts were together like,,,a day before the battle but thankfully i can hide behind artistic liberties and vague timeframes
> 
> EDIT 02/03/21: fixed some grammar mistakes that were bugging me!

He shouldn’t tell him.

It’s an unwise choice, and Fingon knows how his husband will react. With the fierce love with which he holds everything. Like his father, it is both a blessing and a curse. But in that moment, standing over old maps in an even older war tent, there was _hope_ alive on Maedhros’s face, burning bright like it hadn’t in years. And it had been _so long_ since Fingon felt a real, tangible hope that Morgoth could be defeated, not since his father had ridden to his doom and the kingship fell on him with a painfully heavy weight.

But standing alone with Maedhros, it became so much easier to kindle the simple belief that the dark of the world could pass. That through their brilliant, impossible union, they could bring peace. And joy had made a home in his chest, already there was so much joy. How could he ride to battle without sharing that with the person he held dearest? The person he knew would love that joy as much as he did. Fingon had to tell him. For reasons beyond count, he had to tell him.

Really, there was no other way that it would have gone.

He shouldn’t tell him, but, for both good and ill, Fingon’s hope had always outweighed his sense.

“I’m pregnant.”

He saw the length of Maedhros’ back tense and straighten, and his husband turned to look at him, his face caught between disbelief and shock, something tender hidden just underneath.

“You’re what?” His voice was quiet, soft. Slightly choked.

Fingon moved closer to Maedhros, gently taking his left hand and bringing it towards his stomach.

“I’m with child Maitimo. We’re to be fathers.”

A breath passed before Maedhros’ face lit up in uncontained elation, tears budding the corners of his eyes, spreading his fingers across the width of Fingon’s abdomen. Laughing as if he didn’t believe it, like it was too close to all he had ever wanted.

“Finno, you,” his expression turned to one of fear, tears still running down his cheeks, “you shouldn’t be here. Finno, are you mad?”

Fingon could only laugh breathlessly, “Possibly.”

“Fingon this is… This is so much more than us,” another pause as he gathered his thoughts. “Finno, if I were to lose you _now._ I couldn’t…you can’t ask me to—”

Fingon reached up to take his husband’s face between his hands, kind but firm. “Enough of that.” He gestured his head to the table, where directives and letters were piled high, “I will not leave my people to fight alone, without their king to lead them. I have a duty that I cannot abandon, not for anyone. More than that, I believe in this. Maitimo, I believe in _you_. I always have. This plan is good, it _will_ work.” He used his thumb to wipe the moisture from Maedhros’ cheeks. “And when it works, we can raise our child in the peace that follows, the peace that we all deserve.”

He smiled up at his husband, mind reaching out to hold him completely in his grasp.

“I did not tell you to alarm you _melmenya_. I thought, if you knew there was something, small and untarnished that was worth this fight, something _tangible_ …” He trailed off. Maedhros’ gaze had turned away, brows furrowed in thought, in conflict, but already they had begun to mellow.

Fingon already loved this small, precious life with all his heart. With more love than he thought he had to give. And that same, brilliant love was reflected clear in his husband’s eyes, like he knew it would be. He felt no regret.

Maedhros looked down at him again, smile smaller this time, but no less brilliant.

“ _Our_ child.” He raised Fingon’s hand up and kissed it softly, “I still think you are a reckless _nér_ , but that has saved my life before, so I find I cannot quite fault you.” He moved his hand up to clasp Fingon’s cheek, right arm resting against his neck. “If you believe we can win, then I will believe in you, and that will be enough.”

He brought both arms around Fingon in a tight embrace, face tucked into in dark hair.

“Yes,” Fingon replied, jubilant and at peace, “I know it will.”

* * *

He can scarcely breathe. There’s too much ash in the air.

It’s enough to send him back to the pits of Angband, to torment and hell that he could never hope to describe.

But this comes close.

The Fëanorian camp regrouped to the east, too exhausted and depleted to do little else but retreat from the push of Morgoth. But one of them walks the opposite way, back towards the field they had quit.

“Maedhros!”

One foot drags in front of the other. He has to find him.

“ _Maedhros!”_ It’s Maglor’s voice, frayed and desperate, “Maedhros, we have to retreat! Where are you going?”

His answer is murmured and goes unheard.

He doesn’t hear Maglor’s cursing as he orders Caranthir and his men on ahead. He doesn’t hear his brother run up beside him.

Around him, there are only the moans of the dying, the stench of the dead.

_I have to find him._

“Maedhros. Please, this is madness. Fingon has likely fled with Turgon’s forces, they will have marched on to the west. No good will come from tarrying here.”

Maedhros walks on.

_I have to find them._

The two tread slowly across what used to be a grass plain, through the remnants of battle. The ground had been torn up from mounted charges, littered with torn banners and decaying corpses. Blood from both sides mixes together, everything beginning to blur into one dark, shapeless void.

There’s noise behind him, and he thinks it might be Maglor begging him to retreat back, but he doesn’t hear it.

He doesn’t hear anything, because he’s reached a body (what’s left of a body). It’s burnt and broken, and the limbs are twisted in every wrong way. But the standard across the chest, almost destroyed, is too familiar. And gold ribbons lie, torn and nearly encased in the mud, forever more stained.

Maedhros falls onto his knees, his hands braced against the mud, sinking in, and _he’s_ sinking. There’s a horrible, painful screaming like the sounds of the dying and he thinks it might be him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters as his heart is wrenched from his body.

_(It’s Fingon. Eru above, of course it’s Fingon. Because Maedhros dared too much, hoped too much. He should have known that all that he wishes for, all that he loves, is cursed to dust. And it’s Fingon that he loves most.)_

He keeps wailing, sobs wracking his body, when Maglor lowers down next to him, silent because there’s nothing to say, nothing to do. The only sound is Maedhros, throat hoarse and utterly broken.

Maglor thinks, even then, that he hears the last of Maedhros’ joy die. The tattered remnants of what Angband had left have fallen along with the High King.

Maedhros’ screams don’t echo across the field. The dead muffle them.

The body is _wrong_ when Maedhros pulls him onto his lap (gently; so, so gently). It moves wrong, it looks wrong. Yet Maedhros can do nothing else but hold it tight against his chest, as if to shield Fingon, even in death, from all the horrors of the world.

He weeps into the remains of Fingon’s hair, rocking them both slowly back and forth. His cries turn to whispered denials, before quieting enough that Maglor can hear the words he’s muttering softly, like a prayer.

“He. _Our child_. Maglor, he was—”

And Maglor’s eyes widen. He sees for the first time where Maedhros has draped his arm protectively around Fingon’s middle, and knows that there will never be any coming back from this. Not for Maedhros, who loved Fingon beyond reason, beyond life. Who was always so natural as a third parent, glad to care for wayward brothers or a host of young cousins. Who loved children, and not so secretly longed for his own.

“Maglor, I can’t— _Fingon.._. _My child_.”

Maedhros breaks into sobs again, knuckles white from where he has grasped onto his husband.

Maglor sits and waits. Little else can be done, Maedhros won’t be moved.

After what feels like an age, his wails quiet, and a broken voice speaks.

“Kill me.”

The statement shocks Maglor. He turns again to look at where Maedhros sits still, his expression tormented.

“Maedhros—” Maglor tries before being interrupted.

“Maglor, if there’s one thing I will ever ask of you. Please. I cannot bear this. Don’t ask me to bear this.”

Maglor feels his own heart breaking over the grief of it all. He sounds scared when he manages a response.

“Nelyo, you know…you know that that’s not what he would have wanted.” And it’s not. Because Maglor knew Fingon too, was his friend. And he knows that Fingon would have wept to hear Maedhros’ request.

More selfishly than that, Maglor cannot bear to lose Maedhros. Not when his brothers are the only ones that he has left.

(Argon, dead so shortly after finally reach Middle-Earth’s shores. Angrod and Aegor, fallen together. Finrod, lost because he kept his word, because he was _good_. Aredhel, laughing and bold, gone years ago but they hadn’t heard, hadn’t been told. Galadriel, fleeing in grief and pride far beyond the reach of any of them. Turgon, hidden and angry, loss sure to push him even further from the cousins he hates, who he could never manage to forgive. And now Fingon. Fingon who lead their people, who united their houses. Who only wanted to be happy with the person he loved, but instead, for all his good, was rewarded with death.

And the ones left are them. The Dispossessed. Maglor rages because it’s not fair, because there is no justice to this. Because, secretly and to his shame, their survival is a relief)

“Káno, _please_.” The use of his name from a lifetime ago is unexpected enough to give him pause, but it is not enough to change his mind.

Maglor remains firm, “No. That’s one thing I cannot do. I am accursed, I am a kinslayer, but I will not raise a sword against my own brother.”

After he speaks, silence settles heavily around them.

The dying have quietened. The only noise left is that of bird cries, descending for food.

When Maglor meets Maedhros’ gaze, his eyes are large and watery, his face is blank.

“Coward.”

Maedhros turns back to the body, tears steady and voice rasped. He cradles his left hand around Fingon’s belly and whispers into the remains of an ear.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Around them, the crows sing.

**Author's Note:**

> i edited this at 3am so there may be grammatical mistakes oOPS
> 
> as always let me know if any tags are missing!


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